by Debra Webb
Merri Walters carried a gun. The teachers and counselors he’d been exposed to as a kid and then a teenager certainly hadn’t carried lethal weapons. Unless he counted their ability to prevent his forward movement, academically or otherwise. That was why his folks had opted for homeschooling. Still, outsiders had been involved and there were always difficulties.
He should call his mother and wish her a Merry Christmas, but that would only open the door for questions. He continued to work diligently toward his own goals. As much as he loved his mother, she was one powerfully controlling woman. His father hadn’t had a problem with that, but Brandon had. Even as a kid, he’d given her a fit. He needed his freedom to make his own choices. At thirty that shouldn’t be an issue. But his mother loved him and she’d been focused solely on him since his father’s death three years ago.
Merri wasn’t like that. She was smart. Determined and self-sacrificing. He liked her. Wanted to know more about her.
Mostly, he wanted this to be over.
But logic dictated that when the case was over, so would be his connection to her. Be that as it may, he would cross that bridge when he came to it.
Not now.
He eased into the flow of traffic on I–90. Another thirty minutes and they would arrive at their destination. Brandon had been invited to a holiday dinner or two at the Randolph home. Kick’s parents liked him, or they had until their son had been murdered and Brandon had become the prime suspect.
They might not be happy to see him under the circumstances. But there was no way around this step. He wished there were. He’d searched his memory for every moment of conversation he and Kick had exchanged the past few months. Truth was, recently they had spent most of their time yelling. Kick was entirely focused on this story, while Brandon worked extended hours to keep a roof over their heads. Kick’s failure to pay his share of the rent this month had pushed Brandon over the edge.
But not far enough over to kill the guy.
Next to him, Merri checked the screen of her cell phone. She made a face. “Not a call you care to take, eh?” Being nosey wasn’t usually a part of his personality but she made him want to know more…about her.
She glanced at him, blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I was just saying that you apparently didn’t want to take that call.”
“No.” Her lips flattened into a firm line. “That call was a part of my past I’d just as soon forget.”
Could mean only one of two things—a former boss or an old lover. “Someone you broke up with?”
Her silence dragged his attention from the road once more. “Didn’t mean to get too personal.”
The frown that lined her forehead was all too familiar. She looked at him that way a lot. Was there something about him that annoyed her? Maybe she had a headache.
“Let’s just say we came to a mutual decision that it was over.”
“From your days as a cop?” He wanted to bite his tongue for asking. This was clearly none of his business. But the winter landscape did little to hold his attention. And traffic was sparse since it was Christmas Eve afternoon. Most folks had already arrived at their holiday destinations.
“What?”
He pointed his face in her direction. “The ex-boyfriend. Was he part of your life as a cop?”
“Yes.”
Brandon couldn’t decide if the frustration in her voice was directed at him or the question. Other than frustration, the pitch of her voice rarely changed. He wished he had that much control over his emotional reactions.
“Why does he still call you?” He should just let it go. But somehow he couldn’t.
She’d been staring at him since he’d repeated his last question. Those tiny lines still etched her brow. Maybe she was trying to form a case strategy and just didn’t want to talk.
“Because he thinks I’m a traitor.”
He sent her a Really? look.
“He wanted to move to the next level and I didn’t. I came here instead.”
“Oh.” Lots of baggage and history there. If her former lover was persistent, she could end up with him once more.
“What does oh mean?”
Now there was something different. Anger. Another emotion he knew well. “He still wants you.” Might as well get to the point.
“Steven Barlow and I are done,” she said, her tone simmering with frustration and anger. “He’s a great guy, but I can’t stand to be smothered. He smothers me.”
Now he got it. Merri Walters liked being her own woman. She wasn’t about to live or work under anyone else’s thumb. Kind of like him.
“Never been married, huh?” He had. In his early twenties he’d fallen madly in love and married within weeks of meeting the girl. Big mistake. Though he liked everything about her, she had one plan: change everything about him. At first he’d tried to make her happy, but then he’d admitted defeat. He was who he was and nothing, except maybe time, was going to change that. She hadn’t wanted to wait. According to Kick, Brandon had married his mother.
“I was engaged once,” she confessed. “But I fell below the mark where his expectations were concerned and that was the end of that.
She glanced at the screen of her phone again. This time she opened it and said hello.
Brandon attempted to focus on the road. But he couldn’t prevent his ears from listening to every word of the conversation.
“Merry Christmas Eve to you, too, Mom.”
The quiet went on for several minutes while Merri repeatedly checked the screen on her phone in between listening to her caller. He could never talk and text at the same time. Good for her. Then she said, “Yes, I’m having a nice holiday. No, I’m not at home.”
During the next few minutes, Brandon was relatively certain she spoke to each of her family members. When she finally ended the call, Brandon had surmised that Merri was either the youngest of her clan or she was the one everyone wanted to take care of. And she was fully capable of handling conversation and text simultaneously. She’d done that the entire time on the phone. Maybe she was keeping the agency updated since that Michaels guy had been so concerned for her well being.
Funny, he had the distinct impression that she could take care of herself quite well.
It was quarter past four and near dark as they reached the Blue Island city limits.
“There are a couple of modest motels that we could check out before going to the Randolph home,” he suggested. Since he wasn’t paying for her services, the least he could do was attempt to keep costs down.
Merri didn’t respond. He glanced her way. She was staring at the evolving urban landscape. She never even glanced in his direction.
Maybe she was lost in thought.
He’d noticed that several times already. But it bothered him on some level. Keen senses would be critical to her job.
Rather than touching her, he repeated the question, “Are we planning to stay the night here?”
Merri leaned back in her seat, her gaze focused beyond the front windshield now. Nothing about her posture indicated that she’d heard.
“Merri.”
Maybe it was the way he leaned toward her. She jumped as her gaze collided with his. She had been completely zoned out.
“What?” she declared, clearly frustrated.
“You didn’t hear me…did you?”
Chapter Seven
Randolph Home, 6:05 p.m.
Merri stepped onto the porch. A large, welcoming wreath decked in Christmas trimmings hung on the door. The electric candles burning in the windows sent a glow of light across the wide porch. Passing by, one would never know that the family inside had suffered a great tragedy. The holiday decor had likely been in place well before the heinous murder.
Brandon waited in the car, both to avoid facing Kick’s family and to be able to escape the instant he spotted trouble. Merri could take care of herself. But if anything—anything at all—seemed fishy, she wanted him out of here. The street in front of the love
ly old home had been quiet and clear of vehicles. Those belonging to the homeowners were apparently already secured in garages against the cold Illinois night.
Brandon had let her out on the street behind the Randolph home and he’d parked several houses away on that same back street. She needed him safe. If he hadn’t refused to stay at the motel, life would have been much simpler.
WIDELY SPACED STREETLAMPS left all but the sidewalks in near total darkness. Folks in the neighborhood were apparently not concerned about the crime that festered only a few miles away in the big city. Additionally, the few streetlamps allowed the homeowners to observe the stars and prevented too much light from venturing into bedrooms at night.
Merri raised her fist and pounded on the painted wood door. Her purse dragged at her right shoulder. Her parka kept her warm but she would be glad to get inside. The risk that someone was watching remained great no matter how serene the street appeared. For all she knew, trouble could be waiting inside one of the homes. The men who had killed Kick Randolph wouldn’t be put off by a little more collateral damage.
The moment she raised her first to knock again, the door opened and the overhead porch light came on. Kick’s father, Merri surmised. Tall, like his son, with the same blond hair that had long since turned gray. The pain in his eyes warned that he had no time for solicitors. Yet basic human compassion prevented him from showing any rude tendencies.
“May I help you?”
“Mr. Randolph, my name is Merrilee Walters and I’m from the Colby Agency in Chicago.” She pulled out her credentials case and showed her identification. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to come inside and speak to you about your son.” She didn’t add the words murder or homicide. Mr. Randolph knew full well what had happened to his son.
That aggrieved gaze narrowed with suspicion. “The what agency?”
“Sir, I know this is difficult, but if I could come inside, I’m certain you’ll understand that I’m here to help.”
He stepped back, pulling the door open wide. “I can’t imagine how you believe you can help, but you can come in, I suppose.”
Relief flowed along her limbs when the door was closed behind her. Having heard the sounds of a visitor, Mrs. Randolph had come to the entry hall.
“Les, what’s going on?” She looked to her husband for explanation. Karen Randolph was tall, like her husband and son, but her blond hair remained so with the aid of chemicals, Merri could tell.
“This woman says she’s from the Colby Agency in Chicago and she believes she can help somehow.” The man’s halfhearted gesture said far more than his words. They had been visited before.
Karen turned to Merri. “Why would you come here at a time like this? Haven’t we answered enough questions? The men from that other agency were here for hours this morning. We just need to be left in peace.” Tears brimmed on her lashes.
Merri felt horrible for bothering them, but this couldn’t wait. Someone else had been here already. “Ma’am, are you referring to the detectives in charge of your son’s case?” The woman had said agency, but Merri wanted to confirm she’d understood correctly.
Karen shook her head. “The…” she looked to her husband.
“Blackburn Agency,” Mr. Randolph said to Merri. “Two men with identification like yours.” He nodded at her credential case. “The paper where Kick worked hired them to look into…the case.”
Merri couldn’t be sure whether the Trib had hired someone or not, but Simon could check it out. “Do you mind if I call my superior and ask him to verify that the Blackburn Agency has been retained by the Tribune?”
The couple exchanged a look, then settled their collective attention on Merri once more. The husband said, “I can’t see any harm in that, but, are you implying that the men who were here today weren’t hired by the Trib?”
The fear that glinted in the mother’s eyes tore at Merri’s heart.
“Sir, I’m not suggesting anything at this point. What I am trying to do is to make sure that I’m not unnecessarily repeating another party’s efforts.” That should assuage their misgivings for the moment.
“Certainly then,” Randolph agreed. “We would very much like confirmation.”
“Why…” Karen took a steadying breath. “Why don’t you come into the living room and sit down.”
Merri was thankful for her hospitality. “That would be very nice.”
As soon as she’d taken a seat directly across from the Randolphs’ position on the sofa, she sent a text to Simon. He would call when he had an answer.
“…your agency?”
Merri’s gaze zeroed in on Mr. Randolph’s face. “I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to wait until I’m looking at you to speak.” Just say it! “I read lips.”
Why couldn’t she just say that to Brandon? Vanity, pure and simple. She didn’t want him to see her that way.
“Oh.” Mr. Randolph glanced at his wife, then settled his full attention on Merri. “I was asking who retained your agency.”
That was one answer she couldn’t give him. “The Colby Agency is working with the official investigation.” It wasn’t exactly true, but it wasn’t a lie, either. “We’re trying to get to the bottom of exactly what happened.”
The conversation turned to Brandon. Neither of Kick’s parents could believe Brandon capable of such a thing, but their son’s death was far too painful at the moment to truly rule out Brandon as a suspect. They needed the facts, for the peace of all concerned.
“Would you mind going over with me what the men who were here earlier wanted to know?”
Kick’s mother spoke first. “They wanted to know about the story Kevin was working on. We knew it was something big, but he refused to discuss anything about it. So we couldn’t help.”
The exhaustion and misery had deepened and darkened around her eyes, giving her already pale complexion a deathly pallor.
“I know just how difficult this is,” Merri qualified, “but it would help tremendously if you could tell me as much as possible about your son’s life here at home. School. Friends.”
The two exchanged another look. The father spoke this time. “The Blackburn investigators asked those same questions.”
Not surprising. “Do you mind going over those painful elements once more?”
Merri’s cell vibrated. “Excuse me one moment. This is my superior.” She opened the phone. “Walters.” She read the text her screen provided as Simon spoke, relating that the Trib insisted they were leaving the investigation up to the experts—Chicago PD. They insisted they had not hired anyone.
As she closed the phone, she considered the best way to relay this information. These folks had been hurt enough already. But they needed the truth.
“Ma’am, sir,” she said to them, “the Tribune insists they are leaving the investigation to Chicago PD.”
She quickly wrote the name and number of the man Simon had contacted on one of her business cards and placed it on the table between them. “If you want to confirm that information, please call this gentleman. My number is there as well if you have any questions after I’m gone.”
“You’re saying those men were…” Mr. Randolph fell silent.
“Your son,” Merri began, “was working on a big story that may have rattled some cages. Powerful cages. If that’s the case, and I believe it is, you should protect yourselves. Check in with the detective in charge of the case whenever anyone shows up with questions.”
“Then,” Mrs. Randolph said, “you won’t mind if we call Detective Whitehall and ask about you.”
“Of course not.” The Colby Agency maintained an outstanding relationship with Chicago PD. Simon had already discussed Merri’s involvement with the detective. “We’ll all feel more comfortable if you verify why I’m here and what I’ve told you.”
Mr. Randolph stood. “I’ll give the detective a call.”
When he’d left the room, his wife turned to Merri. “Do you believe, based on what you know, that Brandon ki
lled Kick?” The misery on her face spoke volumes about her fear that her son may have trusted a man capable of such heinousness.
“No, ma’am,” Merri said honestly. “I don’t believe that at all. There is a concerted effort to gain access to evidence related to the story your son was working on. I believe Brandon Thomas is a scapegoat, as well as the only connection whoever is doing this feels they have to the evidence.”
Karen Randolph closed her eyes a moment, then opened them to Merri once more. “Thank you. I need to hang on to that. My son is dead, whoever killed him. But the idea that his roommate…his best friend…” She shook her head. “I can’t get right with that.”
Merri was glad to have confirmation that her instincts were right on target.
“What did you discuss with the other men?” Merri asked.
“They wanted to see his room. If he had any special secret places where he might hide something relevant to what he was working on.”
Even his own family had no idea what he was up to. For their own protection, Merri presumed.
“We had no knowledge of his work, other than the articles that made it into the paper.” Karen shrugged. “And if he ever had a secret place where he might hide things, we never knew about it.”
“Did he have any friends in the neighborhood? Maybe someone he attended school with? Someone he was particularly close to?”
Again, Karen shook her head. “He wasn’t the athletic type, so he never did sports. He didn’t join any clubs. He had a couple of sort-of friends back in high school, but they’ve all moved away. I can’t imagine that he would have contacted any of them. But I’ll be glad to give you names if you’d like.”
Merri wasn’t sure she would need them, but better to err on the side of caution. “That could prove helpful as we go along.”
“Would you like to see his room?” The hopeful expression in her eyes told Merri that Karen was looking for an excuse to talk about her son…to show off his things.
“Yes, please.”
Karen rose and headed for the stairs in the entry hall. Merri did the same. Lester Randolph met them at the bottom of the stairs.
